Out of the Blue. Isabel Wolff

done everything you can on the investigation front? You must snoop to conquer.’

      ‘I have been snooping,’ I said.

      ‘But … ’

      ‘It’s not working.’

      ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s not, because you haven’t looked under every stone. You poor darling,’ she added sympathetically as she lit a cheroot. ‘It must be horrible having all these doubts. It must affect your peace of mind.’

      ‘Yes, it does,’ I agreed. ‘That’s exactly it. I’ve lost my peace of mind.’

      ‘Well then,’ she said reasonably, ‘you’ve just got to get it back. Now,’ she went on briskly, ‘I know someone whose husband was up to no good and she used a decoy duck.’

      ‘What, one of those women who chat up your husband and see if he takes the bait?’ She nodded. ‘Oh God, I’d never do that. It’s entrapment. I will not lead Peter into temptation,’ I said.

      ‘But Faith, it looks as though he may have led himself there.’

      ‘Well, yes,’ I conceded mournfully. ‘It does. I’d follow him to work, Lily, if I didn’t know that he’d spot me in a flash.’

      ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘He would.’

      ‘You know, I’m very tempted to get a private detective.’

      ‘Oh yes,’ she said vaguely. ‘I seem to remember you mentioning that the other day.’ We looked at each other as we sipped our drinks. ‘Well, why don’t you then?’

      ‘Because they cost far too much,’ I replied. I glanced round the restaurant at all the happy couples having dinner. ‘Look at all these lucky people,’ I moaned. ‘They’re all happy with their partners.’

      ‘Actually Faith, I’m not sure that’s true. In fact,’ she went on as she expelled a twin plume of pale blue smoke, ‘I know for sure that it’s not. Do you see that couple over there, by the window?’ she went on. I followed her gaze. A man in a pinstripe suit was having supper with an attractive brunette. They were both talking and smiling, gazing deeply into each other’s eyes. In short, they looked as though they were in love.

      ‘He’s a banker,’ Lily explained. ‘I’ve met him socially once or twice.’

      ‘So what?’

      ‘The woman who he’s having such a nice dinner with is not his wife.’

      ‘Oh,’ I sighed. ‘Oh, I see.’

      ‘Where’s Peter tonight?’ she asked in a voice that was zephyr soft.

      ‘He’s at a book launch,’ I replied blankly.

      ‘Well, that could be true I suppose. I must say,’ she went on, ‘a private detective sounds like a very good idea to me. But I’m not going to say any more,’ she added, ‘because you’re my best friend and I don’t want to meddle.’

      ‘Oh God, Lily,’ I went on, ‘this is such a nightmare. It’s like struggling in wet concrete. It’s like trying to run up an escalator that’s going down. You know, I really do want to have him trailed. I just wish it didn’t cost so much.’

      ‘Poor Faith,’ Lily said as she lifted her champagne glass to her sculpted lips. ‘But hey! I’ve just had an idea. I’ll pay.’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘I’ll pay for you to hire someone,’ she repeated as she opened her bag. ‘In fact, Faith, I’m going to write you a cheque right now.’

      ‘Lily!’ I said. ‘Don’t be silly, I couldn’t possibly let you do that.’

      ‘But I want to,’ she protested.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Yes, why?’ She placed her hand on my knee.

      ‘Because you’re my dearest friend in the world. That’s why. But that’s not the real reason,’ she suddenly added with a guilty little giggle. ‘I have an ulterior motive, you know.’

      ‘You do?’

      ‘Yes. You see for some time I’ve been planning an infidelity special for Moi! I want to publish it in June, to counteract all those nauseating weddings. I’m going to call it Rogue.’

      ‘Oh yes?’

      ‘I could interview you!’

      ‘Oh no, I couldn’t do that.’

      ‘Totally pseudonymously,’ she said reassuringly. ‘So I could pay for your private detective and put it through as an expense. We have a budget for this kind of thing, Faith, and anyway, I’m the boss.’

      ‘You’d pay?’

      ‘Yes. I would. It would be perfect for the magazine. I’ll interview you myself, of course, as I know you trust me, and I’ll protect your identity. It would be a First Person piece – Why I had My Husband Trailed. I’d let you see it before it goes in, and don’t worry, both you and Peter will be completely disguised. So what about it?’ she said.

      ‘Well … ’

      ‘It’s a good offer, isn’t it?’

      ‘Well, yes. Yes it is. But to be honest, Lily, I’m really not sure.’

      ‘Look, Faith,’ she said patiently, ‘it’s very simple. Do you want your peace of mind back? Or don’t you?’

      ‘Yes,’ I said suddenly, ‘I do.’

       February Continued

      So that was how I came to find myself sitting in the offices of Personal Quest. I’d found them by sticking a pin in the Private Investigators section of the Yellow Pages. My appointment was for three o’clock. So at ten to I climbed the rickety stairs of a narrow house in Marylebone. I experienced a frisson of excitement as I knocked on the semi-glazed door. But there was no sign of a trenchcoat, or a trilby; no glamorous secretary filing her nails. Just a harassed looking man of about forty-five with short brown hair and a beard.

      ‘Now, I’ve had a busy day,’ said the private detective, Ian Sharp, Dip., P.I., as he rummaged through some files on his desk. ‘So remind me again will you, is your case industrial, financial, political, medical, insurance fraud, nanny check, neighbour check, child abduction, missing persons, adoption search, or good old matrimonial?’

      ‘Er, matrimonial,’ I replied, looking at a framed sign which read, ‘No Mission Impossible’!

      ‘Well, if it’s matrimonial,’ he went on, ‘let me save you a lot of money right now by telling you that it’s either his secretary or your best friend.’

      ‘Actually it’s neither,’ I said as I lowered myself into a cheap, green vinyl chair.

      ‘How do you know?’ he asked.

      ‘Because his secretary, Iris, is fifty-nine, and he can’t stand my closest friend.’

      ‘So who might this other woman be,’ Ian Sharp enquired, ‘and what makes you think your husband has strayed?’

      ‘Her name’s Jean,’ I explained, ‘and, well, my husband’s been acting suspiciously for weeks.’

      ‘Jean?’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Jean. Mmmm. With that name she’s probably Scottish.’ This thought hadn’t occurred to me, but now, somehow, it seemed to ring true. So I told him about the two notes I’d found, and the flowers Peter had sent, and the mystery gum and cigarettes.

      ‘I